Carolyn Hitt: As we dust off our suitcases, some tips on packing light for those jetting off this summer

Carolyn Hitt on the salutary lessons she's learned from years of trying to pack light

With the great getaway of the school holidays looming, roller cases are being extracted from attics.

The pressure to pack light has never been greater. Luggage restrictions on budget airlines ensure there is no such thing as a cheap flight if you want to take more than your bathers with you.

“Ooh marvellous – Palma for £27.99!” you chirp with the first click on the website. Eight laborious steps later it’s £270.99 as you shell out for such “luxuries” as sitting next to your family and the privilege of taking a case marginally bigger than your hand-bag.

There are ways around the latter. Money-saving websites suggest you buy one of those multi-pocketed waistcoats favoured by John Simpson in a warzone and cram it with layers of clothing. Who cares if you waddle through departures looking like an Oompa Lumpa – the joy of beating Ryanair at their own game will compensate.

Yet a recent survey suggests women in particular are still approaching their holiday wardrobe with more excess baggage than the Queen on a state visit. Research shows female holidaymakers pack almost double what they need, leaving half the contents of their suitcase untouched.

Seventy two percent admit always to over-packing, while 42% still plan to shop for clothes while on their break – which may explain a surfeit of embarrassing Turkish Belly Dancing costumes in the closets of South Wales.

Even though they may leave check-in with the label of shame on their cases – the dreaded orange “Heavy” sticker – power to their packing elbow I say. It’s a revolt against all those ridiculous magazine guides to The Capsule Holiday Wardrobe. The latter is a myth perpetuated by fashionistas.

“A swimming costume, sequinned flip-flops and a multi-purpose sarong can take you from days on the beach into nights in the tavernas,” purr the glossy magazines. Yeah right. Nothing like a damp cozzie and a strip of tie-dyed cotton for that holiday goddess look. No amount of fabric origami will ensure your sartorial survival for a fortnight.

Since returning from the Lions Tour, however, I have endured a salutary lesson in the dangers of over-packing. Usually, I’m reasonably minimalist. I even vacuum-pack to make my smalls smaller. But a three-week rugby trip to the Southern Hemisphere poses more wardrobe challenges than a week in Majorca.

Visiting Australia in its winter means you have four seasons in one case. The temperature can range from 6C on a brisk Melbourne night to 28C on a balmy Queensland day so you need boots as well as flip flops and a coat as well as cozzie.

Then there are the added items of Lions-branded sporting leisurewear deemed essential for membership of the Sea of Red – fleeces, pacamacs, rugby jerseys, scarves, hats, leonine cuddly toy etc.

Plus the items you collect en route. The match programmes you have promised to your entire extended family start taking up more room than a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, not to mention the signed rugby ball and the fun-sized digeredoo. Before you know it, you are dragging Ayers Rock on wheels between the airports of the antipodes.

So I thought I’d do the sensible thing and clear some room in the case by sending a package of dirty laundry home to myself when leaving hot Cairns for cold Melbourne. In went the t-shirts, cut-offs, shorts and pants I wouldn’t need for the rest of the trip. Out went the chance of a double hernia when hoisting my luggage on to the airport coach.

It cost £40 to send by sea-mail but I reckoned the burden on my purse was worth the weight off my shoulders.

Then I got home and this week was reunited with the parcel. It had ended up in Canton postal depot with a demand for #39.87 from Customs. One stand-up row; two phonecalls and three forms to fill in later, it emerged I was apparently guilty of “importing” my pants.

“I’m repatriating them, not importing them,” I argued. “How can you import something you took away with you in the first place? They’re not gifts. I didn’t buy them there. It’s just my dirty washing.”

If eye-rolling made a sound, I would have heard it down the line from the lady at HMRC. She clearly thought I was the dumbest traveller since that sun-stroked American who attempted to sail from Dorset to Ireland this week in a kid’s dinghy.

“What did you write in ‘description of items’” she asked, referring to the customs form I completed in Cairns. “Items of clothing: t-shirts, trousers, pants, pair of slippers...” I replied.

“You should have put ‘personal belongings’” she retorted. “But the bloke in the Aussie post office didn’t say anything about that. And he knew full well it was my stuff. He was very amused that I was sending dirty washing across two hemispheres.”

The Customs lady then started reeling off the forms I would have to download and fill in to have any hope of a refund. It is a very complex process. So complex in fact, I’m not sure I can be bothered, though I am feeling completely fleeced by the semantic loopholes of British Customs. HMRC you have given a whole new meaning to money laundering.

Next time, I’ll just have to stick to a swimming costume, sequinned flip-flops and a multi-purpose sarong. And a rugby shirt, of course.

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